


Crow

by MeowMeowCrow



Series: Snow [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeowMeowCrow/pseuds/MeowMeowCrow
Summary: Drops of tears freeze on the King’s ice blue skin. Slowly and gently, the King wipes them off the child’s cheek. Then equally slowly and gently, fingers move south and stop on his stubbornly strong pulse.





	1. Last Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [報喪鳥](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561389) by [MeowMeowCrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeowMeowCrow/pseuds/MeowMeowCrow). 



> Soooo... I'm back with another translated fic! It's kind of a sequel to "North" but it's totally fine if you skip that one.  
> I know this one took me a while and I know this ship is weird af.  
> I just can't help it ;)

The blizzard consumes everything.

 

The King, on the back of his undead mount, looks down at the battlefield from the sheer cliff. The screams of agony, the cries of despair, and the roar of rage from the dying mortals. It almost makes him miss the time when he was alive, when he was still able to feel those overwhelming emotions.

He remembers how those foolish children of the forest pushed that obsidian blade into his chest and how the unbearable pain shot through his body… Death took him afterwards. It made him become something else. It gave him a mission.  _ Peace, peace is his final mission. _

His lieutenant give their orders. The King’s troops are brought back to the front line again and again, no matter how hard the mortals try to defeat them. They are unstoppable, and the mortals can do nothing but hear their broken screams tear through the freezing air.  _ Soon,  _ the King thinks to himself,  _ soon there will be no pain but peace and harmony, a silent paradise. They are too weak, the mortals. _

Iron sword clashes and shatters as it meets the ice. The lieutenant shoots the brave mortal an annoyed glare then ends his life mere seconds later with a squeeze around the throat.  _ Weak, pathetic, brave creatures. _

Another wave of attack destroys the Wall. The King’s dragon is spitting blue fire on the soldiers in useless armours.

“They are losing,” one of his lieutenant mutters, his lips curve into a smile of victory.

“They will lose,” The King agrees, yet halfheartedly. His mind isn't entirely on the war he is destined to win. To be more specific, he is looking for someone, someone with raven hair and beautiful eyes blazing with anger. That child must be somewhere, somewhere near. The King can almost sense the sweet tremble of that particular Valyrian steel sword.

_ Where are you? _

“He's not here,” the lieutenant snorts. The King shakes his head, using his emotionless facade to cover his disdain for his subordinate. No, they can never understand why he is so  _ obsessed  _ with that child,  _ Jon.  _ The King has somehow managed to force a dying warrior to whisper that name with his last breath.  _ Jon,  _ what an ordinary, almost bland, name.

Except that the child is anything but ordinary: the prophecy, the signs, those eyes of a wolf and that soul of a dragon.  _ It would be extremely fascinating to watch him fall on his knees, utterly defeated and devastated,  _ the King thinks amusingly.

His lieutenant let out a surprised screech, shattered ice like sapphire scattered around the hooves of his mount, Valyrian blade sings beautifully as it cuts through the air.

_ Jon. _

The King catches Jon’s wrist, makes the child unable to move, his lips twitch in interest as the child gasps and squirms. Quickly, an unhealthy shade of blue spreads on Jon’s soft, pale, human skin.

“King in the North, it is an honor to finally meet you,” the King says, sarcasm dripping from the emphasized words,  _ king  _ and  _ north,  _ though he presumes the person he is talking to doesn't understand anything he says. Jon glares at him like a trapped beast, heavily wounded yet proud, the instinct to fight back pounding deliciously in his veins.

“Your army is dying, child.”

The King holds the child’s nape and forces him to look down. Blood and death paint the pure white snow like nothing else, the scene is extraordinary. Jon is still struggling in his tight grip, he can hear the broken sob as hope turns into ash in that child’s heart.

_ Good, now surrender. _

The pale-eyed girl with silvery hair has lost her last dragon. Its gigantic body crashes into their stone fortress, emerald liquid splashes on its scales, and sparks soon turns everything in sight into a raging inferno. A millennium has past, perhaps, and many words have become meaningless to him. Like  _ flower _ , for example, he rarely thinks about it anymore but maybe he would reconsider.  _ Yes, he will reconsider, because the fire makes him remember them. Flowers. _

_ Bright scarlet petals, so delicate under his soft human touch. His nose caught their unforgettable fragrance which whispered about warmth, joy, and life. _

Drops of tears freeze on the King’s ice blue skin. Slowly and gently, the King wipes them off the child’s cheek. Then equally slowly and gently, fingers move south and stop on his stubbornly strong pulse.

The child finally surrenders to the coldness and goes limp in the King’s loose embrace. That human heart of his stops beating, swift and quiet and peaceful as the King has always imagined.

Winter has come, death has come, and the mortals have won nothing. The King lifts his arms up, let the deceased join his ever-growing army, let those fragile creatures lose faith, let them realize the fire of life has been put out… 

  
_ Death  _ and  _ peace _ consume everything.


	2. Afterlife

Jon is no stranger to death.

 

He has died, in the night where the biting wind blew and every creature went silent as the dead. Those blades were as cold as ice, shoved into his body again and again. His murderers, they were neither wildlings nor white walkers, but the brothers of the Night’s Watch he so naively trusted. Jon recalls everything terribly clearly, that they watched him fell in a puddle of his own blood and left without saying another word. He felt scared, vulnerable, and filthy as he trembled like an abandoned newborn infant, with only the company of howling wind.

His pounding heart struggling in vain to keep him alive. Prayers froze on his lips. Jon waited and waited, until the last drop of his blood stained the snow dark ruby, until his last breath left his aching body.

After his resurrection, Melisandre asked him desperately if he remembered his life after death. _There was nothing,_ Jon replied, _nothing but endless darkness._ Death didn't bring him to the Old Gods, the New Gods, or the Lord of the Light. Death didn't let him reunite with his father, siblings, or beloved. That sort of darkness was depressing and terrifying, yet curiously, it felt soothing and tranquil at the same time. It was a twisted form of salvation, like a pair of raven’s wings took him into a peaceful embrace and its ink-black feathers gently closed his eyes for him.

Jon Snow has died and been brought back to life. Both decisions were not his to make.

He didn't want to take part in this war anymore, not after his own _murder._ However, in the end, he still bent to everyone else's expectations. He returned to the battlefields, to the land beyond the wall, to the territory of ice and death. _No,_ never for a second did Jon believe in that ridiculous lie the Red Woman calls _prophecy._ He didn't do it to fulfill his so called _destiny._ He did it because it was the _right thing_ to do. At that time, Jon still believed in even a glimmer of hope.

But now, he is caught between the Night King’s icy fingers, forced to look at the way his army defeated like sand against waves. The tragic scene serves as a solid proof, that man could never win the long night, the cold, or the ultimate extinction.

Faced with his death the second time, Jon quickly gives up resisting his fate. His cheeks glistened with tears as he thinks about Arya, Bran, Sansa… Jon shuts his eyes and let the raven’s wings take him away once more.

 

Jon didn't expect he would wake up from his eternal sleep.

 

A cloudless, blood orange sky stretches overhead. The breeze smells like fresh mountain stream, running delicate touches upon his face. Jon can't tell if it is dawn or dusk, if he is dreaming or wide awake. He doesn't feel the fierce gale gnawing viciously on his exposed flesh, or the pain in the muscles and rawness in the throat caused by sword fights and yelling commands amid chaos. Instead, he feels relieved and complete. All the chains and shackles from his past are removed: the sin of being a bastard son, the carefully suppressed helplessness of being the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the suffocating responsibility of being the King in the North.

Jon blinks in confusion. Death simply couldn't make him feel so _alive_.

He stands up gingerly. The peaceful atmosphere seems too perfect to be true. It feels like a thin layer of ice on the top a deep, black emerald lake or glass from the Glass Garden at Winterfell. If Jon doesn’t tread carefully, this serene ambient would probably fall apart and release the monster of cold and darkness within.

A moment later, Jon finds out that he isn't alone.

Hundreds or maybe thousands of human bodies are placed neatly around Jon like a sacrificial ceremony ancient and forgotten by generations of people. None of them is identical to another. There are men and women, the young and the elderly, brothers from the Night’s Watch, the free folk, the smallfolk, soldiers and generals in chain mail and suits of armour. Some are still bloodily fresh, and the others are no more than delicate skeletons. The only thing in common is the peaceful expression they wear on their faces, as if they were merely asleep. Jon looks around himself. The corpses are countless.

“Where am I,” Jon whispers softly, his voice blown away by the cold wind traveling through this wilderness of death. He wishes Ghost was here with him, a comforting mighty friend. He wishes the reliable Ser Davos was here, or Sam…… _Even Melisandre, that Red Priestess with a mouth full of lies, would be a nice companion right now,_ Jon thinks rather desperately. There is no one though, except for the nonstop whispers of wind.

 

_No, the wind has stopped._

 

“You are awake, my child,” a voice calls behind him. The voice is emotionless like ice, rough and ancient like rock. It reminds Jon of a heart tree, of its blood red leaves and tears.

Jon spins around and finds himself faced with the Night King. Those blue eyes are so intense as if they could strip him down to his bare soul and pierce right through it without even the slightest of resistance.

“Night King.”

“They call you the King in the North,” the white walker states. Jon didn't know it was possible, but the white walker king is smiling, blue lips forming a mocking sort of curve.

“I've never wanted to be a king,” Jon says defensively. “I'm Jon Snow, Lord Eddard Stark’s baster son. I want to win the war but not the throne.”

“Are they here?” the Night King asks suddenly.

“Who?” Jon blinks, trying to get rid of the soreness, followed by a lick on his numb lips. The vulnerable skin is dry and cracking that Jon can taste the faint metallic bitterness of his own dried blood.

“Your lord father, your mother, your lovers, your soldiers, your people…… Those who care about your blood, Jon, where are those people?”

“They are dead, or dying,” Jon replies stiffly. He doesn't know what kind of answer the Night King expects to hear. He has no idea what that _creature_ wants besides cruel massacres.

“Yes, they are dead……” the Night King mutters. Every single raspy syllable sends shivers down Jon’s spine, like a poisoned dagger gently slides across the sensitive skin on his throat. “You are dead as well, Jon, but you are different…… You are special, my child. We will bring our army south together. We will wither the precious weirwood trees those Children of the Forest so fond of.

A pair of dragon’s wings cuts through the sky.

Viserion shots into the air like an arrow, its stark black silhouette soaring gracefully in the darkening sky. There is also the faint clip-clop of horses getting closer. Jon puts his eyes back on the King, catching a glimpse of the other white walkers riding on their bony mounts.

“Jon.”

The Night King grasps his wrist, fingernails biting deeply into his flesh like a direwolf’s fangs, not allowing a chance to escape.

Jon draws in a sharp breath. He haven't looked at himself until now. The skin under the Night King’s fingers has a bluish hue, the colour of a frozen dead body in the ice and snow.

“There is no need to panic, my child. You have become one of us.” The Night King puts Jon’s hand on the metal reins of the undead steed. The northern wind doesn't sting anymore, and he doesn't flinch when he touches the cold metal. He is not alive. He is not human. _He has become one of them._

 

So Jon mounts his horse, holding the reins tightly, exposed skin as blue as ice.

 

The slumbering corpses awake. They abruptly open their glowing azure eyes, moving their bodies awkwardly like grotesque puppets. An army with no pounding heartbeat and warm breath.

“It is beautiful, isn't it?”

The Night King looks into the distance. His icicle-like crown refracts the last ray of blood-red sunshine.

“Come on, Jon. We shall bring salvation to the south.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really familiar with ice and snow and blizzards. Living on a tropical island, I consider it the end of the world if the temperature drops below 10℃/50℉ :p


	3. Algor

Jon tries to get used to death.

 

The army of doom moves slowly, but the dead warriors never have to stop or rest. They stagger on the ice, glowing cobalt eyes unfocused and black hands swinging stiffly at their sides. They keep walking, whether it be in the greyish sunlight or in the dead of night. Jon rides with the army, right beside the Night King. He doesn't stop or rest either, bringing cold, darkness, shadows and everything terrifying alongside.

The full moon shines down on the marching army. Pale moonlight feels almost soft and delicate as fine silk between Jon’s fingers, caressing tenderly with a lover’s touch. Jon lifts his hand and let the light splash onto his bone white skin. It flows elegantly down his frosted chain mail and drips from the tip of his sword then eventually falls beneath the running hooves. Unlike the king’s lieutenant, Jon’s curls are still black as writing ink, giving him an illusion that he is still normal and mortal and breathing. That illusion always breaks in the cruelest way, however, when Jon looks at his pale skin and remembers his blue star eyes. Countless times Jon has thought he must be tired, his soldiers must be tired, as the sunset painted the horizon blood red. He would turn and about to command the army to stop and set up camp for the night. Then Jon would meet those deep, blue eyes of the Night King’s. _No, not a human anymore. He belongs to the Night King now,_ Jon thinks numbly.

_Dead or alive, he only needs a purpose in his so called existence. An honourable knight or a cursed white walker, he doesn't care._

Jon shudders uncomfortably as the wind manages to sneak in his armour, ghostly fingers traveling up his spine to the nape of his neck.

“Are you cold?” The Night King halts his horse, his tone hinting a slight degree of confusion, uncertainty. If Jon had not seen the white walker king raise the dead and slaughter every single living creature dared to stand in his way, he would say the king almost sounded concerned.

Jon tightens his grip on the reins and halts his horse as well. His undead mount shakes its large head, half-rotten cheeks glistening with dried, ruby blood under the silver light of the moon. “No, my king. Wind doesn't make me feel cool anymore,” Jon answers genuinely.

“You are trembling,” the king mutters softly, blue eyes staring and deep in thought. He reaches his arm and grabs Jon’s neck with carefully controlled force, as if he was feeling that non-existing pulse, indigo nails lightly scratching on his skin. “Maybe we should stop and get a little rest.”

The lieutenant, riding on the other side of the Night King, snorts with a mocking smirk. “With all due respect, my king, this poor animal born in the south is just a pathetic failure, and he would always be a failure. Forever.” He cast a quick glance at Jon, flames of disgust and hatred burning and dancing threatening in his eyes. Jon thinks about being their foe back then, three white walkers have screamed and melted away under his blade. “Make him go back to the north, my king, he is not qualified to stay here on the front line. _He cannot bring you victory._ ”

 _The north, probably the Land of Always Winter,_ Jon assumes. _Boundless snow-covered fields, majestic trees carved out of blue crystalline ice, wailing winds and countless white bones. Are there more white walkers in the Land of Always Winter?_ Jon can't help but wonder. He knows there are someone out there willing to sacrifice their young children to white walkers. Have all the children become monsters of ice? They have never put summer berries between their teeth, never felt warm sunlight kissing their hair, never played with their siblings while joyful silver laughter echo through the lush green forest… _No, there is a good chance that the children would never witness summer._ The last summer is gone, the Long Night swelling and swallowing up the Seven Kingdoms hungrily. No, those children would not miss the dead summer, but Jon would. Jon would still long for the first beam of sunlight traveling through the fresh green leaves when winter finally ends. The snow would melt, dripping on the soil and waking up the seeds beneath. _Those children were born and raised in the world of ice and snow, unlike Jon. He is a crossbreed that belongs to neither of the seasons._

“No, lieutenant, no one can _bring me_ victory,” the Night King says slowly. His voice is a snake ready to attack, elegantly pulling its body, scarlet tongue tasting the air. It doesn't take Jon to turn his head to sense the sudden annoyance and anger barely hidden by the king’s usual coldness. “I _take_ my own victory, lieutenant. Keep in mind that I am the only one in charge here, my child.”

“ _Father!_ ” The lieutenant hisses aggressively and bares his blackened sharp teeth. It makes him less human, more like a feral beast.

“ _I have had enough, lieutenant,_ ” the king raises his hand, eyes firm and dangerous. Apparently he doesn't allow himself to be challenged. “We will stop tonight and let our soldiers gain some rest, there is no need to rush. Winter is here, after all.”

Jon picks up the reins, his mount kicking and snorting. If Jon and the horse were still alive, he would bend down and whisper comforting words to its ears, gently rub on its soft coat and brush its thick, shiny mane… _No, Jon Snow is dead,_ he reminds himself, fingers tight around the metal chains, ignoring the dull pain on his hands.

“Jon, my child, raise your head.”

Jon lifts his chin obediently and sees their army trampling across the land like a black storm, like the physical form of terror - _they are terror._ They march on the Kingsroad, footsteps dirtied the snow, the contrast of black and white stark under the pale glow of the full moon. The Night King points at a dark shadow in the distance. Jon’s eyes follows the direction, doesn't know exactly what it is at first, can't figure out what the king wants. After a few seconds of observation, a frightening sense of familiarity hits him. Like a cold liquid running in his veins, it makes him nervous and jittery and…

“ _Winterfell,_ ” Jon’s breath hitched. The name of his home can only be whispered, soon fading away like a white wisp of smoke in the freezing air. Jon shuts his eyes tight to avoid the sight of the too familiar silhouette. He knows he is not able to shed tears anymore, the ability died with his mortal soul. He knows it but he can't risk it. He cannot risk exposing his vulnerability, his weakness, to the Night King and his lieutenants. Jon quietly begs to the white walker king for his last dignity, no matter how pitiful it may seem.

“Ah, the legendary Winterfell, smaller than I imagined,” the Night King says slowly, feeling the syllables on the tip of his tongue. “Did you grow up there, child?” The king asks, cold smile too hard to read.

“Yes,” Jon let out a breath, can't bring himself to say anything more. The king would notice the chaotic emotions underneath the cover of his even, almost indifferent voice.

_The red-and-black banners of the Boltons were ripped and burnt. The great direwolves of the Starks returned to the granite castle…_

_He and his Lord Father were about to part ways on the Kingsroad. His father promised that he would tell him about his mother one day, when they met again in the future…_

_Bran lied on his bed, he wouldn't wake up. His little brother looked so small, so pale, so fragile like a delicate doll…_

_Arya held the slender sword in her hands, Needle. The way she grinned and giggled made her the happiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms that day…_

_He and Robb and Theon were playing around and bickering on the courtyard, their laughter bouncing between the heavy stone walls…_

_At the very beginning, when the war had just ended, young Eddard Stark brought back a male infant from the battlefield…_

Jon’s horse doesn't need any instructions to follow behind the Night King, galloping southward with the army. Blue eyes of wights and white walkers glow and wink in the pure darkness of the night, painting an eerie starry sky from another world, a world that is cruel and grim. The blue stars, they are omens of death.

Viserion’s shrieks are shattered metal pieces, sharp and dripping with blood on the edges, like a bolt of lightning tearing apart the night. The wights receive their command, blackened bones clicking excitedly and horrible screams ripped from their rotten flesh, running in the most unnatural way, for a taste of human between their teeth. They come in huge waves, vicious and merciless, singing a song of violence. Jon can imagine the way the waves crashes on the shore, on the fields and houses and castle, when they destroys everything nice and precious.

The waves reek of rotten flesh. Blood sprays beautifully. Jon is a gust of wild wind, ferocious and unstoppable.

Jon can feel his senses become a part of ice and snow, sharp and penetrating like thousands of silver needles. Suddenly he is gripped by hunger, a wild beast awakes inside him and devours his humanity. In a blink of an eye, Jon is nothing left but a blood lusting predator, a hunting viper so swift and quiet. He wants. He needs. He craves that splash of crimson on the pure white snow and that lingering, addicting sweet aroma of death.

 _They are here!_ Jon hears the soldiers’ desperate cries. Valyrian blade licks the blood off their gushing wounds.

Under a silent order, the dragon spits out bright blue flames, burning down the towers standing there for eight thousand years. Jon watches those strange faces. Fire licks at their mortal bodies while their skins being branded by the heat, the coldness. _They are here, they are here!_ People’s prayers overwhelmed by their shouts and screams. The dead laugh mockingly.

A soldier fights off the wights surrounding him. He wields his sword and points it at Jon’s chest.

_He remembers that face, those dark, terrified eyes…_

Silver weapon shatters before it can touch Jon’s body. Then, before the brave soldier can realize his grave mistake, Longclaw pierces his torso.

 

_The castle is torn down._

_No one left to mourn for the fallen heros._

 

“Jon, my child. Follow me, would you.” The Night King waves his hand, telling Jon to keep up. The gloom of the corridors are suffocating, extinguished torches still hanging on the stone walls. They follow the glistening ice, make a right turn and step into a familiar space, the Great Hall. In his hazy memories, the Great Hall was for feasts and celebrations. Now it is quite as a graveyard, while fresh corpses pile up like little mountains.

 _No, it is not completely silent here,_ Jon corrects himself. _There is someone else, sobbing._

A woman with flaming red hair, her ragged clothes as thin as paper barely covering her tiny, trembling body. She keeps sobbing and hiding her face from the white walkers. A baby, there is also a wheezing baby, being held tightly to the woman’s bosom.

“It's a boy, my king.” The lieutenant stands behind her and takes her child easily from her scrawny arms. The mother starts to shake her head violently and bawl. She might be begging for her baby boy’s life, perhaps, Jon can't tell. He can't understand her words anymore, human’s words. He isn't supposed to understand an animal’s tongue, is he.

The lieutenant holds the baby boy in his palms, and gives him to the Night King.

Jon stands beside the king, those wet eyes of the baby’s staring right into him. He watches silently as the king spreads his fingers on the trembling body and gently presses on the baby’s pale cheeks.

The boy blinks, _once, twice._ Warm hazel lefts his irises, and intense blue fills to the rim of his eyes.

“Ah, my child,” the Night King mutters, the baby staying so still in his hands like a lifeless doll. _No, not lifeless, he is still blinking his blue eyes, you see,_ Jon corrects himself. The mother howls and screams. She is a feral animal whose agony Jon can't sympathize with.

Without a bat of an eye, the lieutenant thrusts his spear into her skeletal body.

Jon doesn't move a muscle when the rich, sweet smell of blood hits his nostrils. “Jon,” the Night King calls softly and reaches for his hands. Jon stretches his arms, his posture stiff and awkward, but the king insists on handing him the baby nonetheless. The baby has stopped wheezing since the transformation, now gawking at Jon with his new, bright blue eyes.

“You are dismissed now. Jon. Lieutenant.” The Night King turns and leaves the Great Hall of the Stark Castle. Ice forms under his every step, a beautiful carpet following the king who brings death and life alike.

 

_Many years ago, a motherless child was held in his father’s arms, crying loudly or sobbing weakly. He was born during the war and was brought to the north from his sweet home, his sweet mother, witnessing the horrible consequences of war._

_What was his mother like? Jon often wonders._

_Was her hair bright and blazing like fire in the coldest, darkest night? Or was it golden like honey-sweet sunshine? Or was it dark and soft like a raven’s feathers? Jon doesn't know. Was his lord father ever in love with her?_

_Did his mother love him?_

 

Jon cradles the motherless boy, wandering around Winterfell, stealthy like a shadow. The scene is almost the same as the nightmares he used to have back at Castle Black, when he first became a crow. Everyone was missing in his dreams, vanished without a trace. He was completely alone, panicked footsteps echoed hauntingly in the empty corridors. He would shout and scream and woke up with cold sweat soaking his clothes. _Maybe it was a sign, a warning._ Jon opens his mouth and attempts to call his brothers’ names, his sisters’ names, his father’s name, his uncle’s name, anyone’s name but he finds that he isn't able to do it. The cold and darkness forbid it.

The boy is neither fussy nor sleepy. Instead, he just keeps gawking at Jon with eyes like blue glass balls.

“What is your name,” Jon asks. The infant gives no answer as expected.

“You must be cold,” Jon blurts out, what a foolish thing to say. The piece of cloth wrapped around the boy is as good as nothing. “Yes, you must be cold. I should get some fire.”

He finds it, eventually, behind the corpse of a northern soldier, a still burning torch, orange flames vivid like summer blooms. Jon carefully balances the boy in one of his arms, the other one then reaches behind the frozen body and brings out the torch. It seems to burn more passionately with a touch of fresh air. Jon can almost feel a spark of warmth plant a kiss on his numb skin.

Slowly, he brings the flames to the boy.

The boy turns his head suddenly, not staring at Jon anymore but the orange fire. He giggles when the warmth disappears.

“Oh, you don't like fire,” Jon says with a little bit of disappointment in his low voice. The boy wriggles in his arms. He seems a bit disappointed as well.

“Of course he isn't fond of fire, _human,_ nobody likes fire around here.”

The lieutenant emerges from the shadow, glowing eyes filled with disdain.

“I am not a human.”

“Oh, you certainly are, _naive human._ I respect our king, but I just don't understand what he sees in you.” The lieutenant smiles cruelly.

“Move. Please. You are in my way.” Jon keeps his voice perfectly even, one hand holding the boy against his chest while the other clasping the hilt of Longclaw, fingers feeling the snarling white wolf. That intense sensation on the battlefield comes back to him, and it is mixed with something else. The boy is so small, so frail, so cold in his arms. The boy is motherless. He must protect, bring him to somewhere else, somewhere safe. Somewhere safe. Somewhere. Leave. Leave. Leave…

 

_Killing makes Jon numb. He is buried deep in the white snow, blind and suffocated._

_Dragonsteel clashes with the ice. The song had never sounded so beautiful._

 

The boy seems fairly content grabbing on Jon’s front, now babbling like any normal infant. He tries to place the boy’s head directly above his heart, it might be a good idea since he probably needs some form of comfort like any little child do. Then Jon remembers. His heart is no longer beating. His chest is aching from the hollowness.

He doesn't know what else the boy needs. Some warmth, perhaps. A little bit of warmth always brings a smile to Jon’s face.

So Jon wraps his arms around the boy, fending off the harsh, biting wind for him. He steps into the pool and lets the pleasant heat moulds to their bodies. Numerous invisible hands grasp his wrists and ankles and drag him to the bottom of the hot spring. Jon doesn't fight it. He simply lets it happen.

The water is gentle like a lover, kissing and caressing. Powerful sensation invades him. Jon moans softly. A cold bubble escapes his lips. _It's alright, he doesn't need to breathe._

 

Blue ice starts to form on the surface of the pool. He drowns. He sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #WhiteWalkersHaveDaddyIssues
> 
> Oh, I have a Tumblr now ;)  
> →https://meowmeowcrow.tumblr.com


	4. Sapphire

How long has he slept? Jon has no idea.

 

He is a fallen leaf, withered and shrunken, sinking quietly on the bottom of the pool, waiting to fall into decay. The once heated spring has cooled down completely, no longer clear but thick and filthy, forming a shroud around Jon’s body.  _ Sleep, sleep,  _ the water chans, singing a song of ancient magic, long forgotten by generations of human.

_ Sleep, my child,  _ Jon hears the sibilants whispered by his ears. He doesn't think Lady Stark would hum a single lullaby for him, but perhaps his mother had, just before she handed the newborn baby to the honourable Lord Stark. His mother would let down her beautiful silky hair and croon to that little bundle of joy in her arms, the song sweet and fresh as daisies in the early summer.  _ Sleep, my child.  _ He holds the motherless baby tight against his chest and falls unconscious, as silent as an insect inside a cocoon.

Jon dreams. In his dream, he goes back to the inner castle of Winterfell.

There is no one in the corridors, only the trapped shadows of ghosts swirling between the heavy granite walls. Jon feels gagged and suffocated, so he begins to run, he  _ has  _ to run, blue ice following his panicked steps.  _ Escape, escape, escape,  _ his instinct shouts and screams at him.

He can't tell how long has he been running. A century has passed, perhaps.

Jon finally runs into the Godswood, under that ancient weirwood tree. His legs suddenly give up and Jon collapses on to the dense snow. Crimson tears bleed out from the old man’s face carved deep into the pale bark, still wet to the touch, gleaming under the ghost of a silver moon. Jon falls on his knees, hands folded like a humble supplicant--he prays and he begs, to a unspeakable force far greater than himself. The cold and demons seize him at last. The black pool freezes over, blue ice crackling and laughing. It is not a pleasant sound, hair standing up on the back of Jon’s neck.

The weirwood let out a piercing wail of anguish as a glacial wind hits its branches. The tree shakes violently. One by one, its blood red leaves falls and twirls in the frigid air.

_ No, those are not fallen leaves but fire. Bright, blazing blooms of fire, dancing to a deadly song. _

Red flowers land on Jon’s skin before he can react and flee, soft petals kissing and touching tenderly.

He starts to burn.

The pain isn't intense at first, more like slim silver needles prickling his fingertips, but it gets worse very quickly. Every fiber of his muscles, every piece of his nerves, every drop of his blood is set on fire, burning and boiling.  _ It hurts, the pain is too much,  _ he wants to run away, to beg for mercy and forgiveness, but he is completely paralyzed. He can do nothing but let the pain torture him and humiliate him.  _ It hurts, it hurts, whom should he begs to? Help, help! Is there anyone who can save him from the agony? _ His blood, sweat, tears turn into black smoke. He hears the sharp, jagged laughter of the blue ice and the deep, twisted one of the weirwood tree.

Flames take over his body. Jon can see nothing but those fiery flowers, lethal yet beautiful, burning their way through the Godswood.

_ A great sea of deadly blossoms. Black smoke rises and white wolf howls. _

_ At the end of his suffering, he could almost hear weak, distant sounds of a baby's cry and a mother’s gentle singing…  _

 

Jon jerks awake from his sleep. It feels like a millennium had passed.

He is panting hard, chest heaving, dry air moving uselessly in and out his lungs. The pain is lifted and the flames vanish. He lies on his side, curling up like an infant. The motherless boy snuggles up to Jon’s abdomen, tiny mouth babbling incoherently.

“You killed my firstborn, Jon,” the Night King says. It is not an accusation, the voice even and impenetrable. He holds his spear made of ice firmly in his right hand, standing up perfectly straight right before Jon, sapphire eyes staring down at him.

“So you know,” Jon pants, still out of breath, even though his body doesn't respond to the comfort of air. No, he isn't panicked or afraid for himself, but he choose to wrap his arms more tightly around the young child.

“Of course I would know, Jon, I know everything concerning my children, especially my firstborn son. Algor, he had never been particularly wise or composed, but he was still my child.” The Night King reaches out and helps Jon onto his feet. “His twin brother, Rigor, died when we battled at Hardhome. Your dragonsteel sword melted his bones and soul. Rude, reckless, both of them. They had so little patience, if they had any at all.”

Jon’s legs are still sore and wobbly. Shadows of the nightmare lingers. Every fiber of his muscles, every piece of his nerves, every drop of his blood is haunted by the memory of that horrible dream as if it was not only a harmless dream.  _ Jon was torn and broken, gruesome wounds sizzling with black smoke and black blood pouring out from his throat. _

The Night King lets go of his wrist, but Jon knows every small twitch of his body would not be able to escape from those narrowed azure eyes. His face is held carefully between the king’s palm; the skin is cold and smooth as a rock against him, a wisp of white mist ghosts on his parted lips.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what, Jon?”

“Your firstborn son, my king. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me.”

Jon’s shoulders are stiff and tense, and his head is bowed low. He uses his shadow to protect the boy from the king’s sharp gaze: if the king decides to punish Jon, then Jon will be the only person to suffer the consequences of his fury.

“Ah. Jon, my good child, there is nothing to forgive,” the Night King lifts Jon’s chin, feather-light touch running along his jawline. “Algor had fought beside me for thousands of years. He and Rigor, they were my first followers… Yes, they were my eldest sons, my oldest creations, but there is no need to feel sorry for them. Jon, you defeated them--you are the winner and they failed to prove they were better warriors. Jon, you must always keep in mind that the world is fair. It is how things work for us, and for  _ humans  _ as well. Jon, don't you agree?”

_ You win or you die. _

“Children of the forest, humans, dragons… Jon, they fought and they failed to stop us. A new civilization will be born, and it will know nothing but peace and prosperity. We will be its Creators,  _ the Gods.  _ Jon, I promise you, we would not be exiled from the empire we build.”

The king’s words are so alluring, in the most terrifying way.

“Yes, my king.”

“You should celebrate, not brood, Jon,” the Night King lets go of his face. “Come, I want to show you something. Come with me, child, nothing will hurt you.”

“What about the boy?”

“Bring him with you, Jon. Always. He is yours to worry about from now on.” The Night King cocks his head, inspecting the giggling boy wrapped in wet cloth. “Have you decided on a name? Every child should have their own name; an entirely new one, perhaps.”

“Embery, my king, his name shall be Embery,” Jon answers. Not exactly thinking, the words falls from his mouth so naturally, as if the name was picked by his tongue.  _ Maybe it is another damned sign. An omen. It doesn't matter, though,  _ Jon thinks to himself.  _ He has long lost his faith and parted ways with his Gods anyway. _

“Embery, an exquisite name,” the Night King’s lips pulls into a delighted smile. “Come, my child. I did promise you to show you something.”

 

_ The Night King leads him through Winterfell. Jon steps on the dense snow, his footprints deep inside the pure whiteness, getting closer and closer to the edge of the Godswood. They keeps walking, the intention of heading to the black pool and bleeding weirwood in the centre is incredibly obvious at this point. _

_ His instinct demands him to run and flee, but the white walker king simply wouldn't let it happen. _

 

“What did you dream about,” the Night King requires, slight curiosity showing in his voice. “I haven't dreamt for a long time, longer than I can remember, Jon. It is an inconvenience only the young ones have to tolerate.”

“Fire. I dreamt about fire.”

_ He was burnt alive. The pain was too real to be called a dream. _

“An unusual dream indeed, and a rather upsetting one as well,” the Night King comments. “I still remember the last dream I had, my Jon. I would like to keep it to myself, however.”

They stop at the root of the weirwood tree. It is towering, ancient, mysterious as it has ever been, the face engraved staring blankly at the blindingly white snow. It doesn't cry or feel happiness, emotions is a foreign thing to it, at least that is what Jon choose to believe. His lord father always whispered his prayers to the tree, so did all the Starks before him, but prayers have never been answered. The Gods were long dead, they should have known better.

“Give me your hand, child.”

The Night King locks his cold fingers with Jon’s tightly, pushing his palm to cover the heart tree’s ashen bark. _You should kneel, Jon,_ the Night King speaks in hushed tone, softer than snowflakes, luring like a spell. _Child, we must not resist our destiny. Kneel, Jon, give yourself to me completely._

Jon takes in a sharp breath. His eyes wide open, but it isn't the same Godswood, black pool and the weirwood carved with face that welcomes his sight anymore.

He is flying.

The crow’s wings cut a deep wound to the heavens, and pale daylight spurts out like sweet blood, painting the sky with a dull, gloomy colour, a shade between absolute darkness and nauseating white. Raw wind pumps under his wings, pushing him up and _ up _ . His feathers are the sharpest blades, tearing apart the thick clouds. Soon, he will be able to touch those bright, sapphire stars… 

_ Jon,  _ the Night King's voice is guiding him. Jon follows that slim, silvery strand and folds his wings. He starts to dive.

Mountains and plains blend into a blur of black, grey, and white. Jon gasps as the thrill of falling suddenly grabs his frozen heart. Pain and another unexplainable sensation course through his veins. Jon can sense the white walker king’s presence as well; their thoughts and feelings, flesh and soul, are bonded to each other, inseparable. The emotions come too quickly in strong waves, attempting to drown.

_ Jon, look at me. _

The king’s crow flies right beside him. Their wings are almost linked together, and the blue of their eyes is the sole colour left in this destroyed world. They are the only ones left, and they own the entire world. Nothing can escape their notice now: war, hunger, illness, and the ultimate death.

_ It's so beautiful,  _ Jon says to the king.

_ These will be yours. These will be Embery’s. Jon, this empire is going to be mine and mine only. Join me, Jon, and these will be all yours. _

Blood dries on Jon’s dark feathers like liquid garnet or ruby. The Night King’s sapphire gaze is fierce and searing, branding his mark onto Jon’s heart. Jon moans faintly, letting the wind take his breath from his parted lips; then his blood, then his arousal… 

The crow spreads his wings and soars into the sky again.

Jon’s conscious is thrown out of the flying creature and the next moment he finds himself returned into his own heavy body. Just like how he woke from the last nightmare, his chest is heaving achingly, withered lungs desperately searching for air--it is the same, except it is not a bad dream this time. There is no fear, only  _ ecstasy. Lust is tangled with biting coldness, a primitive impulse to hunt and conquer. The beast within is waken by the sweetness of blood on the tip of his tongue. _

_ Say you are mine, _ the Night King mutters and bites on his neck, venomous enchantment injected into Jon’s body, flowing under his pale skin.

_ I'm yours, my king. _

Jon surrenders and submits himself to the white walker king. All he can do right now is quiver, totally stunned and paralyzed by the king’s words.

 

_ The blood red leaves of the weirwood shiver and fall from the branches, landing on Jon’s cold-and-hot skin. _

 

Jon is pushed onto his hands and knees now, his body pulled taut into a beautiful curve. He presents his vulnerable throat to the king, like a fawn waiting to be slaughtered and sacrificed.

Warm, rich blood drips on Jon’s lips and he welcomes it hungrily, opening his mouth wider so the red thickness can flow into his throat and soak his cold body. Several human bodies are penetrated and hung on the pale branches, broken, weak, and half-dead. Jon ignores their incoherent begs, since he no longer belongs to their kind. He moans softly when he thinks about that ideal world of black and grey and white, blood and more blood.

The Night King entwines their fingers while silvery strands tighten around their souls and bodies alike. Red leaves keep falling and red blood keeps pouring out from the followers of the heart tree. Sensation more intense than fire lights up his nerves. Jon lets out a silent scream.

 

At the apex of his ecstasy, Jon hears weak, distant sounds of a baby's laugh and a mother’s heartbroken cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, chapter 4, didn't expect I would make this far. Big thanks to every comment and kudos!


	5. Child of the Crow

Embery has grown, and so has the war. It has grown and swelled, burning down even the slightest trace of human civilization. There is nothing left, only the ashes remain.

 

Jon raised Embery himself, the once weak and helpless boy. He fed him with blood and the last breath of their enemies. He started to fight like a ruthless warrior on the battlefields with a single purpose in mind, that he could bring the red, hot liquid back to the camp, watch the satisfied little smile on Embery’s face as it dripped into his mouth. How long has it been since the day Jon took in the boy? The sun doesn't rise and set as it used to, and the horizon on the east is now a grey, ugly scar. Time. Time has become a vague, fading concept.

After the golden hair fell from Embery’s little head, snow-coloured curls soon replaced it. The boy is like any other white walker, with an ivory complexion and intense sapphire eyes, his hair white as the finest raw silk; he makes his own weapons out of ice, and fire smothered almost instantly in his mere presence. Only Jon, after all this time, his curls have stayed black as the raven’s feathers. He wields his Valyrian steel sword proudly when most of his kind shy away from its cold gleam. Fire, on the other hand, can still burn and hurt his pale skin.

“Jon, they are making fun of you. They call you names when they think you are not listening,” Embery always tells him that. The boy and the Night King are the only two people who would call him by his given name.  _ General. Crow. Halfbreed.  _ Those are the titles they have given him, and there are so many more.  _ Whispered in the dark, filthy and untouchable. _

“Let them call me whatever they want, Embery. I don't care, and neither should you,” Jon gives a gentle pat on his shoulder.

The boy is all grown up, no longer a boy now, it seems. Embery lusts for violence like his father, always the first to jump in a brutal battle.  _ Kill, kill, kill,  _ his orders blend seamlessly with the loud screeches of the wights. Jon’s wings never come close to the speed of the boy’s ferocious stallion.

“He is a great warrior, Jon,” the Night King’s thoughtful eyes never leave Embery’s back as the boy walks away and joins the other lieutenants. Frost clings to his armour, as dried blood on his ice spear reflects the dull light with a faint red tint.  _ He doesn't need someone to look after him,  _ Jon realizes,  _ he can drain the boiling liquid of life from his enemies’ body himself and took their last, pathetic breath from their trembling lips. _

“He is not only a warrior,” Jon shakes his head, snowflakes falling from his hair.

“Indeed, he is more than a warrior,” the Night King agrees. “He will become a great general, a remarkable leader.  _ Just like you, my child. _ ”

“I am your general, there is no need to deny it, but I am not a very good leader, my king,” Jon smiles softly, his voice casual and even, his words bitter on his tongue; they taste like rotten flesh or burnt marrow. Being a leader, he was used to that kind of heavy, parasitic responsibility, but not anymore. He doesn't want to repeat the mistake he once mistook for honour and justice.

They walk through the camp together, side by side. All kinds of noises, clear and crisp like the crystal of ice, ringing by his ear. Sharp laughter of the white walkers makes the sword at Jon’s waist hum and shudder. He can feel those azure gaze running up and down on his bod, from his foreign dark hair to his Westerosian armour.  _ A crow fed and train by the humans,  _ Jon knows how the white walkers think of him.

Embery started to defend Jon as soon as he learnt their language, snarling and growling like a wolf, blue flames flickering dangerously in his eyes despite his young age and small frame. Jon would stop him every time with a firm hand on his shoulder and a faint yet reassuring smile. He doesn't want to see his Embery rip their throats apart for him. Embery is more than that.

_ Besides, they are only telling a truth,  _ Jon chuckles silently inside his head,  _ the irony. _

“My King. General.”

The voice forces him out of his mind and makes him halt on his track.

There is a woman, who has enough courage to stop the king and his general. She blinks those sapphire eyes, little drops of ice frozen on the lashes, sparkling like diamonds. Her hip-length hair does little to cover her naked torso, a dazzling splash of stars, framing the body along its soft curves. Her skin is shamelessly displayed, as cold as ice and as white as bones, with vivid blue streaks adding to the beauty--the serpentine lines travel from her collarbone to her round breasts, then her abdomen and beneath the black rag around her thin waist, tangled with the metal chains and dried tree vines.

Jon knows it is not a piece of ordinary cloth, but a piece of leather made from human skin. The unsettling shade of black is a result of layers and layers of blood painted on it during the battles.

“Cyanea,” Jon nods politely in acknowledgement.

“My child,” the Night King takes a step closer and puts his palm against her flawless face; the gesture remains for another few seconds before they parts slowly.

“ _ I have too many children but not enough time. I can't possibly stay with them all the time,”  _ the King once explained to him, “ _ but it only takes me a single touch to see through them. A touch, skin against skin. I need to know them, Jon. _ ”

“We are looking for Embery, my king. We found and captured some humans on the south of the camp,” Cyanea says, her plump lips and black teeth are stained, as if she had just drunk wine. White walkers don't drink wine.

“He is with the lieutenants, my child, Cyanea.”

The girl dashes and disappears quickly, like a white phantom.

“She is close to Embery, isn't she?”

“Yes, my king, they have gone closer recently,” Jon replies honestly.

“That boy you raised, Jon, he is getting stronger, more powerful than the others. Soon, I will make him my general, and the two of you will fight for me side by side. I promise you, Jon.” The corners of the Night King’s mouth turn up, forming a confident smirk. The deep purr of his voice tugs at Jon’s heart and left a sore, subtle ache in the organ.

Wind whispers at his ears. Jon ignores its vile, venomous comments.

“Those humans, they are planning something,” doesn't feel like continuing this topic, Jon states quietly.

They keep walking for a while, wandering away the camp, leaving the surrounding walls of wights, until Jon’s shoes touch the sand of the beach.

There is no one on the sea shore except for Viserion. It is depressed, lifeless, dead trees with broken branches as pale as fractured bones. Thick ice stretching its long, skeletal fingers from Blackwater Bay, Dragonstone already under the fingertips.  _ Soon,  _ Jon estimates,  _ soon, the king will cross the Narrow Sea. _

“My child, those humans are always planning something,” the Night King snorts dismissively. “Fly with me, Jon. I will show you,” he says as he straddles Viserion’s back. The mighty beast screeches and spreads its wings.

 

Jon still cannot get used to that sharp, shattering sound.

_ Jon closes his eyes and feel his outstretched wings and feathers. Piercing wind dances madly around him. _

 

When Jon’s eyes snap open, the ground is too far beneath him, everything shrinks to tiny black dots. Cold air supports Viserion’s huge size with a sense of raw grace, with the Night King balanced on the back. It is like a black bolt of lightning. An omen of death, a punishment, or the sweet salvation. It rips apart the thick clouds and swoops down again, like thunder which shatters the living world.

If Westeros has become a frozen land, then the world across the Narrow Sea has become a inferno, burning unceasingly. It is unclear from this distance, but Jon knows there are dragons in the flames, hovering in the sky. Newly built fortresses defended by the most fearless soldiers. Bows pulled taut. Arrows on fire. They are prepared for the next waves of countless wights.

_ They wouldn't give up,  _ Jon says to the Night King. They are so close to each other that his wings almost knocks on the white walker’s cold, hard armour.

“Of course they wouldn't give up, Jon. They are pathetic, unlike you, they couldn't realize the beauty of surrendering to me. To us _. _ ”

_ But they will,  _ Jon replies, though he can't tell how much genuineness he puts in those words. He also can't tell if the king is able to see right through him, like what he does to all of his other children.

“Yes, Jon, they certainly will. We will make them see.”

The Night King reaches out one hand, ignoring the risk of falling and crashing, and holds the crow besides him into his palm. Long, bony fingers become the bars that caged his freedom, cold, gentle and deadly. Jon can feel his icy breath ghosts across his body--it touches and lingers and whispers ancient enchantment into his ears, making it so hard for him to think or doubt… 

“We can be free, once the chaos is over. Just you and me.”

The Night King presses his thumb to the back of Jon’s neck with affection, so caring as if he was holding a delicate flower instead of a bundle of frozen flesh and bones.

“I will give the throne to Embery and his ice queen. They will rule a grateful world side by side when we go somewhere far away. To the north, to the south, to the east, to the west… Anywhere, Jon, not a living creature would dare to stop us.”

_ Why?  _ Jon asks like a brave fool.

“Because I give them life.”

An algid gust of wind lifts him higher, out of the king’s even colder grasp. It washes over his feathers, his beak, his talons, making him shiver uncontrollably--or is it because of fear, temptation, madness.

“Yes, Jon.  _ Life.  _ Embery’s and Cyanea’s, Rigor’s and Algor’s. Yours.  _ Mine. _ ”

_ I am not sure if I am ready, my king. _

_ Oh, believe me, you are. _

Jon lets out a muffled yelp as he suddenly rips himself away from the crow’s mind and body, the pain too vivid and real, sweet and nauseating in his mouth. He trips and lands harshly on the cold, lifeless beach, ice and grits burning his skin and bones.

The king still perches perfectly balanced on the thorny back of Viserion. The majestic resurrected beast dances at where the night cracks and bleeds silvery light. It is a dark cloud with thunders and storms growing stronger between its wings.  _ War is growing ever so strong. _

_ Embery!  _ The voice in his head urgently screams and demands him rise and run back to the camp as quickly as possible. He must get back to the boy--his boy, who drinks the blood from Jon’s palms when he was slightly younger.  _ No, Embery isn't ready; he is just a child. _

Jon has never feel this kind of fear before. Claws colder than the longest night squeeze at his heart; his nerves are tortured mercilessly. If someone poured melted metal into his dried, empty veins right now, they would get a perfect model of the shape of dread and horror.  _ Embery, Embery, Embery,  _ Jon calls the name of the child whom he sees as his own.  _ War,  _ the wind chants.  _ He is only a child,  _ Jon protests angrily.

He makes a sharp turn--if he breaks his ankles he doesn't know, and he doesn't care. “Embery. Where is Embery?” Jon questions the soldiers like a madman, clenching his teeth and growling in a way that would make a direwolf proud.

_ He is in that strange palace, a room where the chair of thousand melted swords is at,  _ the white walker replies, blue eyes glowing unsettling in the darkness of the night.  _ General, _ he adds, a formal and respecting mask over his wrinkled face.  _ Halfbreed,  _ Jon can hear his true thought barely hidden under the dull tone, yet he can’t bring himself to care.

Jon never cares for their petty, venomous comments about his decisions and heritage. He follows the bloodied footprints without a second thought--they are so bright and vivid against the white of snow, as red as the petals of flowers which only blooms in the warmth of spring.

 

The scene that greets Jon makes him stop dead in his tracks.

 

Blood, intestines, and tangles of hair are splattered on the cold stone flooring of the deserted throne room, like a flower out of season, wild and fearless and  _ breathtaking _ . Cyanea lays at the centre of the flower, right on the top of its core where the scent of blood is the most intense. She presents her bone-white body unashamedly and unapologetically. The glorious thickness of blood runs on the curves of her body like oil paint does on a canvas. Her legs spreaded wide, ready to take everything that is given to her. Whatever it is.

Embery kneels in front of her, just like how Jon had kneeled under the heart tree a lifetime ago. He is a humble supplicant as well. Bloodied silver hair tangled around his fingers, the colour of the rarest rubies and flaming passion.

Fingers laced together, they are one. Embery covers his body with hers, and she arches to meet his feverish touch.

_ They are one. No win or lose. No domination or submission. They are one. _

Embery tilts his head and licks off the blood, still wet and fresh and reek of death, from a patch of ivory skin. At that moment, Jon knows the child has caught him watching. Through Cyanea white hair like a stream of stars, a pair of familiar glowing blue eyes stares right at Jon and penetrate his forced calmness.

_ He is not a child anymore,  _ Jon corrects himself.

 

_ Blood was pouring out from his body, for they had cut through his skin and organs and veins, letting the liquid of life leave his cold body in a rapid flow. Jon knew he couldn't die--he is the Lord Commander of the Night’s watch, he couldn't die like that….. He still fell down, defeated, in the coldest night at Castle Black. _

_ Tiny hands, a child’s hands, holding a dagger as firmly as a skilled killer. A drop of tear rolled down his cheek, but frozen into ice before it could hit the ground, so Jon was left there without a single trace of warmth. For the watch, they said. _

_ Jon wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh but he was too tired to do so. _

_ No, he wasn't too tired. He still had some strength, just enough to wield Long Claw and cut the rope. _

_ It was quick, clean, merciless. _

 

“Jon. What’s wrong. Don't run away, my child.”

The Night King finally catches up with Jon, following the bloodied footprints in the snow. His firm body standing behind the general like a cold wall, blocking any possibility of escaping.

“I'm not running away, my king,” Jon denies softly, a breath left his parted lips like petals of a withered flower, or a dying butterfly.

“Good,” The king purrs by Jon’s ear. He snatches Jon’s hand and locks their fingers tightly. “He will help me take my victory, and you will share the glory with me. Embery will be the new king, and Cyanea his queen.  _ We, Jon, we will be the gods _ .”

 

Deeply inside, Jon knows, that no war is ended with victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm so late and I'm so sorry! University has been busy--fun, but busy. Everytime I close my eyes I can hear my professor chanting "kinetic energy" and "angular momentum" in my head.

**Author's Note:**

> Since English is not my native language and I don't really have a beta, I'm really sorry if there's any stupid mistake. Feel free to tell me what you think about this fic!


End file.
